


Justice Is Served

by CaariOsamu



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Spoilers - No Mercy Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaariOsamu/pseuds/CaariOsamu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grieving is never a simple or easy process, even for the most simple and easy-going of us all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Justice Is Served

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMonsterGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMonsterGhost/gifts).



> For my good friend, who wanted a little bit of sad and a little bit of angry.

Sans was not much for prayer, his belief in Something More wavering just beyond the realm of 'don't give a damn.' But never--never--had he prayed harder than when he came upon what he hoped, pleaded, was a fresh mound of snow.

The wind stirred the dust just so, a tattered slip of crimson waving up to him much as his brother had not hours before.

_I'll be back, Sans,_ he had said.

_Maybe I can talk sense into the human,_ he had said.

"Oh no, no, god no," he murmurs, falling to his knees, genuflecting to the memory of smiles and laughter turned to dust. Papyrus is so soft now, so ephemeral; what is left of him slips like a dream between Sans' bony fingers. Choking, wretched sobs overtake him for what must be a small eternity before he runs out of noise, out of breath, out of reason to cry.

It is out of a sense of tired duty rather than dogged determination that forces Sans onto his feet and into the garage. It's a shame that they don't own any nice urns. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and who even needs to think of these things with a brother so young and sweet as his own?

He didn't deserve this. He deserved to live a long, happy life. A soldier's life? Perhaps not, but a happy one. Spaghetti with loved ones, puzzles with friends, smiles unending.

He deserved far better than a mason jar to collect what was left of him.

Grief breaks through the sweltering numb twice in the process of collecting Papyrus. The first break came as he was returning from the garage a second time, two more mason jars in hand. There was so much more dust than Sans could have anticipated and he couldn't live with the idea of leaving even a scrap of his brother behind in the snow.

He stood over the faint impression of struggle and release in the snow, already feathered and blurred by the wind and the snow drift. Beneath the dust, Papyrus' "battle body" lay out in an almost perfect imitation of his shape, but it was all wrong, it was too flat, and Sans fell once more to his knees. One of the jars shattered beneath his knee, having fallen to the unforgiving earth before he had, and he couldn't bring himself to notice through the despair choking his throat.

Papyrus had worked so hard on that silly costume. More than one finger was pricked along the way, and on numerous occasions, Sans had to help him dislodge himself from the table where he had accidentally hot-glued himself to the wood. But oh, how proud he had been. He simply couldn't bear to take it off!

And here it was, never to be worn again save by the dust that would cling to its fibers years from now, carrying the last little bit of his essence far longer than he had ever gotten to wear it.

The second time the grief broke through the numbness was when the ashes were collected and Sans had to decide just what to do with that silly, sad little costume. He couldn't simply leave it in the snow but he could scarcely look at it either. A part of him, however irrational he knew it to be, was afraid that to disturb it would scatter any trace of his brother he had missed in the process of cleaning him up. He could not, however, just leave it to rot in the snow with the passage of time.

With some difficulty, he decided to take the battle body up to Papyrus' room, whereupon he fell to pieces all over again.

He did not deserve this. His sweet brother, so big in body and bigger in heart, selfless and pure and brave. His action figures would no longer see play or intensive recreational battles; his car bed would never know a long highway. The latest thank you letter to Santa still lay, unfinished and unfurled, upon his desk.

He did not deserve this.

Reverently, Sans laid his armor out along the bed in the shape of Papyrus' body as he might have laid were he asleep. He pulled up a chair, as he had done many a night before this one, and pulled his favorite bedtime story from where he had left it upon Papyrus' table. He cracked the well-read book open and reads to the empty air until he had nothing left to read, and then again and again until he had no voice with which to read.

Slowly, he would close the book and set it aside for another night. He stood, bones creaking, and had nearly left before an urge struck him. Without giving himself another moment to second-guess the move, he took Papyrus' bright red scarf in hand and left the room, a tomb of stifling memories growing far too painful to be around any longer.

Scarf in hand and heart left somewhere out in the snow, Sans sat down heavily upon the couch, and it is here he has been sinking lower and lower for hours, wishing he could simply vanish between the cushions.

It occurs to him finally, as the idle crackle of static from the television fills his head, that there were still funeral rites to consider and people to tell. Not many people, sure--the brutal slaying had occurred at the edge of town, there was no way the townspeople did not know--but enough to make the task hard.

Undyne, for certain. He wonders how she is going to take the news. He realizes he does not much care, but he should not let that reflect in how he breaks the news.

"Break the news... God." Sans spits the word at his feet and he does not realize how tightly he is gripping the scarf in his hand, knuckles grinding with the effort. He cannot tell her, not now, not yet. First, he must...

He must give his brother his funeral, quietly and privately but most importantly, quickly. There is a storm brewing within his ribcage and he has a mighty need to unleash it upon that vile, evil, dirty brother killer as soon as monsterly possible.

The question then becomes, what was Papyrus' favorite thing? To complete the funeral, his remains must be sprinkled onto his favorite thing so that his essence may always thereupon linger.

There were parts of him still engrained upon his battle body upstairs, but there were two mason jars worth of Papyrus left to sprinkle, and Sans is unsure quite what could be classified as his favorite thing beyond that costume. His toys and books were beloved, certainly, but little could compare to the sheer joy working on and wearing that costume had brought to his brother.

Sans pushes himself off of the couch with a sigh, draping the scarf over his shoulder. He could scarcely think for all of the noise in his head and the ache in his being. Maybe he had some of that quiche left over, something to fill the emptiness--

Of course! How could he have forgotten?

Sans is before the refrigerator in a blink, pulling the door open with energy he did not know he possessed. On one side sits an empty bag of chips, still slightly greasy. He does not even remember how long it has been sitting in there. It's not the bag that catches his eye, though, and it sure isn't what he was looking for.

The dozens of sealed containers of spaghetti are, however, and he wastes no time in pulling each and every one of them off of the shelves. He lays them all out upon first the table and then, when he has run out of room there, upon the counters and the seats of the chairs as well. Tupperware, empty butter containers, elegant glass serving dishes--all of them labeled with masking tape and marker so that no one could ever mistake them for anything other than "Chef Papyrus' Masterfully Cooked Spaghetti."

A pang of guilt catches him just between his ribs as he looks over the sea of uneaten, unwanted spaghetti. It wasn't very good, no, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, and Sans wishes for one very long moment that he had at least attempted to finish the spaghetti while Papyrus was... while Papyrus was still around to see him do it and take pride in his work.

"Well, bro, sorry I'm a little late, but you know what they say... There's no time like the present."

The room is suffocatingly silent, but Sans does not let that deter him as he opens the smallest container in sight. He peers inside at the otherwise innocuous spaghetti. For all intents and purposes, it looks pretty alright, even by Papyrus' standards; there were no obvious signs of burning or of it being under-cooked. Everyday, ordinary, but very special spaghetti nonetheless.

Sans sets it down once more before making the quick jog toward the table in the entryway. He picks up the two mason jars filled with the off-white remains of his brother, the weight of them sinking into his hands as the gravity of what he is about to due sinks into his bones.

"Heheh... Did I keep you waiting? Come on, bro, it's dinner time."

The pasta is unceremoniously dumped upon a plate and rather ceremoniously covered with a liberal sprinkling of the magical dust. It could almost pass as grated parmesan, he tells himself, still not entirely sold on the idea driving him onward. The spaghetti is tossed in the microwave, just to knock the chill off. There were few things worse than badly cooked spaghetti, and very cold, badly cooked spaghetti topped that list.

The microwave beeps and he lets the spaghetti sit for a moment longer, partially to let it cool, mostly out of hesitation. Was he really about to...?

No, there was no backing out now. He had to do this. For Papyrus, he would do anything.

" _Bone_ appetit," he says to an empty kitchen. He has no appetite to speak of.

Too restless to sit, Sans takes the first bite while leaning against the counter. The taste was as indescribable as the first time around with an added dash of ash for flavor, and not even a thorough dose of salt or ketchup could mask it. He can feel the grit of his little brother between his molars. The sink is awfully inviting just now, tempting him to spit out the half-chewed pasta and sending the rest to a well-deserved grave in the garbage disposal.

No. No, he has to do this. He has to finish the job. He owes Papyrus that much, to not have the very last bit of his life and memory washed down the plumbing.

The first two plates go down without much of a problem aside from their unique aftertaste. He stumbles over the third plate, considerably more sizable than the last two, and by the fourth plate, he is fighting to choke down even a bite.

He is quite unsure whether the taste is to blame or just a lame excuse he is feeding himself to keep from crying over what a sorry excuse of a brother he is. Standing in the kitchen, eating Papyrus' hard work only because he had died, seasoned liberally with his very own remains? What sort of memorial was this?

He deserved so much better.

And yet, the more Sans eats, the more energy he gains. Something indescribable, akin to a warmth and a feeling, begins to well up in his core and he eats faster, like a monster starved. Seven plates, ten, sixteen, each plate disappearing just as the next comes out of microwave. The feeling grows and grows, until the last plate is slammed so hard into the nearly full sink that it shatters.

The feeling is rage. Enraged over the injustice of his baby brother's cruel death. Enraged over the existence of that demonic, heartless brat. Enraged that he couldn't have seen this coming and done something to prevent it and save Papyrus.

The feeling is rage, and it is flooding his very marrow, making his bones quake and itch with the need to seek the justice Papyrus deserves. There is something else, too, welling within him, a Determination he had never before felt.

This may not be what Papyrus would want--even with his dying breath, the kid could only see the good in that demon's heart--but it is what Papyrus is going to get. Justice.

Sans takes Papyrus' scarf into his hands from where it had laid draped over his shoulder all this time, gazing fondly down upon it. Reverently, he wraps it around his neck, tucking it beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling the hood up.

It felt almost like Papyrus was still alive, giving him one of his world-famous hugs.

Almost.

Sans glances around the kitchen once more, into the living room as well. The spaghetti was now eaten. The sock might one day be picked up, though the post-it notes would surely remain as they are for years to come. His pet rock was freshly fed.

And then he is gone, the comforts of home left behind for the cover of shadows. The trick to besting one's enemy, he recalls, is to observe them and get to know how they work, first. And if there's one thing Sans is good at--lazy, laid back, lackadaisical Sans--it is observing.

For all that has transpired to ruin it, it is a beautiful day outside.

Birds are singing. People are fleeing.

Flowers are blooming. Cities are burning.

Today, Sans thinks--standing in the grand cathedral of a hallway just before the throne room, shaking and angry and more Determined than ever--today, a dirty brother killer is going to Hell.

Justice is served.

**Author's Note:**

> Though we all know that isn't quite true, is it?


End file.
